Page 2 of Dating Mr. Right A Collection
“Please. You know me better. I’m going to send a super-short email along the lines of Thanks, but I feel we’re not the best fit.”
She wipes imaginary sweat from her forehead. “You had me going.”
I blow on my fingernails. “I still got it. I learned from the best.”
“I have taught you well, and I will now take all the credit. Also, I can’t believe you didn’t like Henry. Why not?”
“Look, I know your friend Betty thought we’d be great together, but I just didn’t feel like he and I had anything in common. He actually liked the cheese-making class. I don’t want to make cheese. I want it served to me. Who has time to make food from scratch when it’s just as easy to order it or, gee, I dunno, buy it?”
“Fine, so you didn’t both like making cheese. But you truly didn’t connect on anything?”
I shake my head. “We didn’t have a chance to learn if we did. All he talked about was the cheese. And then the coffee. Nothing more interesting. Nothing like black holes or the meaning of the universe. Or perhaps why certain cult classic TV shows aren’t streaming online—like Cupid with Jeremy Piven, which is arguably the best show ever canceled before its time.”
“And every time you mention it, I want to see it more and more. We could try to hunt down DVDs. Did you check eBay?”
“I’ve tried. Believe you me, I have tried. It’s harder to track down than buried treasure.” I sigh. “But see, this is my point. It’s such a better conversation topic than cheese.”
“What about Sandy’s grandson, Matthew? The one from the pickling class? He seemed like the type you could discuss anything with.”
“The trouble with Matthew is the whole time during the pickling class he kept telling me about his job.”
“It’s normal to discuss your career with a date. I’m sure you mention your work sometimes,” she says gently, as if she’s talking to someone who has no clue about dating, men, and human interaction.
But I do indeed have some clue. I’ve been on enough dates and enough bad ones to know what I want and don’t want, thank you very much. I want to leave my work as an alternative fuel scientist at the lab, and call me crazy, but some professions don’t lend themselves to small talk.
“Grams. He works at a funeral home. He told me all about embalming people . . . during a carrot pickling class.”
She tuts. “Fine, so he needs some work on social skills. Who doesn’t?”
“Plus, pickled carrots? Ewww. Just eww.”
“What about Sally’s grandson Freddie? We set up you on the glassblowing date. That seemed fun.”
I shoot her a stern look. “Glassblowing, Grams. Don’t you remember what I told you? It was like a nonstop slapstick night of inappropriate jokes, and none were even funny. I love you and all of your efforts to set me up, but here’s the thing: these in-person matches don’t work on me. I’m evidently immune to matchmaking IRL.”
She smiles hopefully. “Maybe you just haven’t met the one yet.”
I sketch air quotes. “There is no ‘the one.’ There are many. But the trouble is meeting men in these real-life situations has a risk-to-reward ratio that’s too high.” I count off on my fingers. “I’ve gone to singles yoga classes, and I find nothing duller than omming my way through ninety minutes of mantras. I’ve attended wine tastings, even though I believe it’s a conspiracy to convince us the beverage is amazing when, in fact, it tastes literally like dirt, and I even signed up for ballroom dancing, but I infinitely prefer fast-paced sports on wheels. And don’t even get me started on Ping-Pong lessons.”
“Ping-Pong lessons are an excellent way to meet a soul mate. You do know I met your grandfather, may he rest in peace, at Ping-Pong lessons.”
“That was more than fifty years ago. You were twenty-one.”
“Ping-Pong was fun then, and it’s fun now.” She gives me a coy little smile. “After all, there’s a reason your mom was born when I was only twenty-two.”
I blink, pause, process. “And now Ping-Pong is officially ruined forever.”
“Your mom took Ping-Pong lessons too,” she says, practically taunting me. “She took them when she was twenty-four, and voilà, you were born nine months later.”
I arch one brow. “I’m feeling like Ping-Pong lessons are a euphemism for something. Call me crazy.”
“I’m just saying, it’s fun whacking a ball back and forth.”
“And the double entendres continue. Which may explain why I don’t care for it, and I don’t want any unexpected side effects nine months after a game.”
“Fine, fine. Shall I cast a wider net, then? Ask some of my friends at poker club? Or maybe in my water aerobics class?”
I slice a hand through the air. “I love you, but no. Setups and other randomly selected in-person dates rely too much on luck and chance and happenstance. Think about it. What are the true mathematical chances I’ll meet a man who is at least eighty percent compatible with me—and that’s my baseline—during Ping-Pong lessons?”
